Redemption

by Shey Stahl

“I shouldn’t, right?” I sat down beside him and then sniffed my armpits. It almost knocked me out. How Destry hadn’t said anything was beyond me. “Oh my God, I smell awful.”

  “Yes, you do.” He scrunched his nose and scooted a foot away. “Usually you can’t have sugar when you’re dieting, but I think you need some. Don’t cut it out completely.”

  “No, I need to lose weight.” My words came out defeated. “I’m staying away from it.”

  Jared frowned. “Don’t starve yourself.”

  “I know.” I changed the subject. No need to talk about my issues this late. “How was work?”

  “It was all right.” Jared rolled his eyes. “I’ll be glad when I’m off patrol. I arrested some douche for beatin’ the crap out of a girl. He was nineteen and she was his sixteen-year-old girlfriend.”

  “Whoa.” I looked over at him. “Heavy.”

  “Yeah, dude’s got issues. I remember him back when I did my ride along in college. He’d just gotten out of child protective services and is now stayin’ in the system, if you know what I mean.”

  I didn’t, but I agreed with him. “Sounds like it.”

  “It’s sad to see shit like that.” We sat there staring at the TV when Jared looked over at me. His head rolled to the side like he was exhausted. “So, what’s the champ doing?”

  “Ex-champ. And he’s a douche. I bet he’s BFFs with that guy you arrested today.”

  “Doubt that.”

  “I wouldn’t. He’s got this ‘I’m angry and been used’ attitude that makes me want to punch him myself. I don’t understand why he’s so bitter.”

  “It sounds like he’s had a lot of people use him over the years.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Like who?”

  “Danny said his girl did. Apparently, he lost that fight to Ray Lucas and she left him right after he lost the fight.”

  “That’s rough.” I still didn’t feel bad for him. No way. My body hurt too bad to have sympathy for anyone other than myself.

  But then I thought about Destry with a woman. A guy who looked like him could have any girl he wanted. Those blue eyes alone could bag him a chick if not for the dark lashes that seemed to give the right shadows over them. Then there was the jaw line and rigid muscles. Oh yeah, he could get any woman he wanted.

  Jared smiled and flicked my ear. The sore one. “Are you already having fantasies about Destry?”

  Lie. Because you know damn well you are.

  “Ugh!” I pushed myself up from the couch. “I am not,” I lied. “He’s such an asshole.”

  I kept saying that but there was no way I believed it entirely after hearing him laugh. There was a good side to Destry. Deep down there had to be.

  ONCE AGAIN I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts were going from Silas to Destry and back again.

  Why was I putting myself through this for one night?

  Easy. Silas Cade.

  I checked Twitter since that’s where I frequently stalked Silas. He didn’t update too often but he had posted a tweet three hours ago.

  @SilasCade Less than 6 weeks and I’m headin’ home.

  Feels good. Can’t wait to see familiar faces.

  Was he talking about me? He had to be.

  My heart pounded as a smile appeared. He was talking about me. I knew it.

  He didn’t have Facebook, other than a fan page, which he never posted on, but his bandmates sometimes did, so I couldn’t properly stalk him there. Or I would have.

  Then, I typed in Destry Stone.

  What the fuck is wrong with you?

  Not that I expected him to have Twitter or any social media account. Not surprisingly, he didn’t. But there was a ton of shit on there about him. Mostly gossip.

  He was talked about even four months after that fight. For a good hour, I sat there trolling through months of Tweets that ragged on him. There were some that were on his side and spoke highly of him and his fighting style, which was said to be aggressive but with back-alley speed and patience that was unheard of for someone who was only twenty-four. Though he came out swinging, he’d measure his opponent. Study them.

  There was nothing about Destry after the fight though. He avoided the press and his only comment over and over was “I want a fucking rematch.”

  I clicked on a link where they talked to the guy he fought, Ray Lucas, and he said, “If he wants a rematch, I’ll give him one. He’s a respectable guy and lands a mean punch. He’s also hittable. Going into the fight, everyone said I wouldn’t get a hit on him. I did. I knocked him out too. He’s not invincible.”

  There wasn’t a lot of information surrounding the fight in December. After reading all that, and how the public had harassed him, accusing him of throwing the fight, I almost felt bad for him.

  Almost.

  As I sat there reading, one thing was evident. My body hurt, I was starving, and I wanted to quit. Because of that I didn’t feel bad for him. Shockingly, the only thing keeping me from quitting at that point was Destry.

  And not even in the sense that I liked him as Jared suspected. I most certainly didn’t.

  I didn’t want to hear “I told you so” from him. Call me stubborn but that was me.

  In a way, having Destry around was exactly what I needed.

  This is a type of defensive-counterpunch combination used against a fighter who takes the lead and throws a jab first. It requires a fighter to anticipate when his opponent is going to throw the punch, to pull away just enough for him to miss, but stay close enough in range to land a counter-cross in return.

  The next morning, guess what? I couldn’t move again. It was becoming a pattern. Only problem, I still hadn’t recovered from the first workout. And my left calf hurt so badly I think I pulled a muscle in it. I’d heard rumors that the second day after you start working out is the worst. And you know, I could testify to that fact. I only thought I couldn’t move yesterday…. Today, the shit was real.

  So there I lay, wishing death upon myself. Or maybe my own personal massage therapist who made house calls. I figured Destry gave a good massage.

  What the fuck is wrong with you? Lock that shit down, Tallan. Don’t even think like that.

  My phone beeped so I twisted, which was a horrible idea. New levels of pain assaulted my already beaten body. Even my ears hurt this morning. Probably because Destry ripped out my hair last night when he so rudely removed my headphones.

  It was a text from him telling me to meet him at the gym at eight tonight and drink plenty of water today. Even though it was Saturday, he said we needed to get in five full days each week, which meant I could take Tuesdays and Wednesdays off. It was starting to feel like boot camp. I was looking forward to Tuesday.

  I got out of bed. Okay, I rolled over to the edge of the bed and fell onto the floor.

  Thank you, Jesus, for inventing gravity because falling required no effort. I crawled out of my bedroom. Same difference. I made it to the kitchen, used the cabinets and counters to stand and retrieved a glass.

  “Here’s to day three of my workout,” I said, filling a glass of water and downing it like it was supposed to taste good.

  After that, I had no choice but to get dressed since I had to go see Lauren this morning, finish the edits for that article, and then I needed to spend some time at the library doing research on solar energy.

  Any time spent doing research flew by for me. I loved research. Digging deep into the lives of others was right up there with Taco Tuesday. Seated at a local Starbucks, I did what I probably shouldn’t have done. I googled Destry again. I couldn’t help myself. The journalist in me was fascinated by him. What surprised me was what popped up on Google first. Stella Summers. The alleged girlfriend. Who named their daughter Stella?

  Obviously, her parents were fans of A Streetcar Named Desire because what other reason would there be for burdening your child with that dated name. Did they not think that one through? Clearly not. Unless they were setting her up to be a future stripper. That w
as an option—based on her appearance and demeanor—that held great potential.

  January - TMZ

  The situation for Destry Stone couldn’t get any more awkward than seeing your girl walk out during the fight you just lost with your opponent. During the fight, the small-town girl Stella Summers, who captured the fighter’s attention when she was only fourteen, was seen crossing her arms and looking the other direction as the fight unfolded, visibly upset at Stone’s performance.

  It was the fifth round when Stone went down by way of a knockout that Summers walked.

  A source close to the couple said the high-profile pair had apparently been on the rocks for the last year. Stone has made no public comment regarding their split and refused when asked to comment during a press conference held a week after the fight saying it was “None of your {explicit} business.”

  Okay, so it was true. He was unattached now. Or maybe this wasn’t true and just something they printed. I knew from experience you couldn’t trust everything you read online.

  There were photographs of this Stella Summers and I knew they didn’t do this girl justice. It was like the photos of Silas I would find. I knew the effect Silas had on me in person. And I also knew a photo couldn’t capture that.

  It was nearly six that night by the time I left the coffee shop. Just like last night, much of my time spent trolling the internet was a vortex of time. I became sucked into it and hours later reemerged.

  I made it home with enough time to grab some food, a piece of chicken Jared made last night, and then I shoved some carrots in my mouth. Topped that off with a string cheese. Don’t judge me. I had protein and carbs in there. Might have been snack foods for a toddler, but they hit the spot.

  Being a Saturday night, the bar was packed. Cars lined the gravel parking lot along with a handful of patrons sitting on their hoods smoking. When I walked past them, catcalls permeated the air, but I kept walking with my head down. Creepy bastards. You didn’t pay attention to that shit in Seattle. A woman walking alone toward a bar had “bad idea” written all over it.

  I wasn’t dressed for a classy establishment such as this, hell, on second thought, maybe I was. After all, the entrance reeked of piss.

  I walked into the bar and headed toward the basement stairs. In my own way, this was my walk of shame. I knew the pain and suffering I was going to endure and the thought of Destry and his rudeness toward me made this torturous event even less appealing. I learned from the last two days that Destry went out of his way to be rude. But he did smile at me last night. That’s progress, right?

  Walking down to the basement to await my torture, I spotted Destry. He was in the same spot he was last night, waiting for me against the wall.

  He looked a little different. His face was still plastered with that irritated expression, but his mood was noticeably different. I thought I was dreading tonight, but seeing his demeanor now, heat coursed through me and I began contemplating faking an injury, or a seizure to get out of the workout. Whatever was going on with him was going to be taken out on me. And call me crazy, but I had no desire to be the brunt of his anger. Unless he was spanking me.

  Ugh, stop.

  I stayed in my place, afraid to approach him. I looked down at him, not sure what to say. I knew I was a few minutes late, but I didn’t think my punctuality would cause this reaction. Something else was going on.

  Maybe he had a visit from his ex and that put him in a foul mood.

  When I did briefly make eye contact, there was something more brimming at the edges of his eyes. Sadness. He immediately looked back at his hands, like he didn’t want me seeing what was really going on.

  Nah, sadness couldn’t be it.

  This dude was as emotionless as the brick wall he leaned up against. Whatever it was, I was scared… for me and my aching body.

  He stood, his arms steadying himself against the brick wall. He stared at the ground, but then slowly lifted his eyes to mine. There was so much emotion in them I was caught off guard. Until he spoke. “Nice of you to show up.”

  He didn’t waste any time, did he?

  “Can you just be pleasant for one day?”

  Destry rolled his eyes as I watched him walk toward the mats on the basement floor. “Not likely.”

  What a fuck face.

  Ten minutes later, he had me doing sit-ups. I hated sit-ups. I understand what they did and the general idea behind them, but it didn’t make my stomach muscles grateful. It made them pissed. And it hurt my neck.

  “You’re not doing them right,” Destry said, noticing me struggling. He seemed calmer when he spoke but still had that tense edge. “You’re supposed to lift your shoulders off the ground and keep your chin raised up. Don’t tuck it down to your chest.”

  What he failed to understand was that my chin being tucked toward my chest was the only way I was getting my body off this mat and to my knees. Call my chin action the gas in my engine. Without this position, my body would stall, and I’d lie on the mat like a wilted fat flower. But I tried to do as he said, only he had to demonstrate. I knew exactly what was about to happen.

  He was going to touch me. My entire body tensed in anticipation. Maybe, in anticipation for that to happen, I purposely struggled with the exercise. And I refused to admit it aloud.

  The moment he stepped closer, invading my personal space, my nipples hardened at the thought. And he was in a prime spot to get my full-on high beams right in his face.

  Destry kneeled down beside me and, with no hesitation, he reached out and placed two fingers under my chin to raise it up. Rough skin slid across mine. Then he took his palm and placed it on my shoulders. “Cross your arms over your chest.” He moved to hold my feet.

  Oh God, he’s at my feet.

  If I did a spread eagle, his head would be between my legs. And would that be so bad? Uh, nope. My body flushed with emotions and reactions too fast to understand or process what the right reaction would be.

  Open your legs!

  No. Don’t.

  His voice was low and controlled when he whispered, “Tighten your stomach muscles by drawing in your belly button.” His eyes lifted from my stomach to my eyes, a moment of silence fell over us.

  Then he moved his hand to my stomach and flattened it.

  Sweet Jesus. Move your hand lower. Lower, damn it!

  His fingers made the slightest pressure against my skin.

  Just a little lower and keep that pressure.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Did you drop a weight on your head?

  “Keep your stomach tight, feet on the ground, then slowly lift your head followed by your shoulder blades until you’re at a ninety-degree angle.” He put his other hand on my feet as I raised my body up. “Hold that position for fifteen seconds and then bring your torso back to the floor.” He watched me, his impassive eyes dark, concentrating on my form. When I did as he said, he smiled. Actually smiled. “Good. Do that twenty more times and then I’ll show you another set.”

  I did, and then he proceeded to show me five different kinds of sit-ups. Who knew there was more than one?

  Thirty minutes into that, we stopped to drink some water before he was going to show me back exercises. Even though I was pretty sure my stomach muscles were cramping and trying to kill me, I silently hoped there would be more touching. Whole-body touching. Okay, maybe just between my legs.

  I could only gather that this mental change in my previous thoughts of him being an asshole to now wanting to put his hands on me had something to do with lack of food and the lactic acid that was being released from my screaming muscles. It was messing with my brain.

  We were standing near the wall of weights when he looked over at me, his eyes examining my face, as if he was trying to decide on what he wanted to say. “Ordinarily a person wouldn’t go through this much for one night.”

  Holy shit. Was he actually trying to make conversation with me? And then I thought, nice. Here it was. Now he was judging
me too.

  “What if one night gave you an answer that finally made sense?” I asked, shifting my weight and leaning into the wall as I tried to stretch my calf muscles that were cramping up.

  He didn’t give my question any thought. At least, I didn’t think he did. “So, what, you win tickets or something to be a groupie?”

  “No.” I snorted, trying to appear annoyed. I didn’t have to try very hard. “I used to date him in high school.”

  Destry raised an eyebrow, a small twist of his lips. He then shook his head without saying anything, his eyes focused on the water bottle in his hands. Standing straight, he motioned toward a bench near the wall and retrieved a pair of free weights.

  “You don’t believe me?” I took the weights from him and sat on the bench.

  He lifted his eyes to mine, considering the question, and then wiped the back of his hand over his jaw as if he had an itch. Motherfucker didn’t have an itch. “I don’t care if you’re telling the truth or not.” His eyes then dropped back down to my hands. “Doesn’t make a goddamn bit of difference to me.”

  “What?” My jaw dropped. Literally. “Why would you say that?”

  When he shrugged, I wanted to—once again—shove this weight in my hand up his ass. Here I was, trying to reserve judgment about him and be nice for today but the more I was around him, the more I understood this guy was an all-around dick.

  “I said I don’t care if you’re lying or not.” He kept his head down as he spoke. “I don’t give a shit that you used to date him. Fuck him, follow him around like a stalker, I don’t really care.”

  You’re an ass.

  Now I didn’t say that, only because a guy like Destry already knew it. There was no sense in telling him. Refusing to let him see me struggling with his harshness, I continued with the workout as if none of that bothered me. I had a goal. I didn’t need his opinions or his fucking judgment. Screw him and his high horse.

  Used in many forms of entertainment, but in relation to boxing, the term refers to an individual or entity that arranges boxing matches. This typically includes paying everyone involved, obtaining the necessary licensing, advertising the event, ticket sales, securing a venue to stage the matches, assuming all financial risk and nearly every facet of organizing the contests.